Angry Haiku

Back when I was a young and naïve fool…in the different world of April 2020…I did a silly little post about 100 haikus. This mostly intellectual exercise was to occupy my engrams while I adjusted to COVID-19 isolation. The words dribbled and dabbled and fell accidentally from my fingertips here and there. No pattern. No real effort. I got a couple of dozen poems in the books and was pleased with the effort, such as it was.

Then the world changed. A crushed neck. Protestors beaten. Media thrashed for doing their jobs. The absolute lack of national leadership. And Lafayette Square.

I tried to find my inner peace through patience and perspective. After all, the images today are the same ones I saw in the Sixties, Seventies, Eighties, Nineties…you get my point. A million teaching opportunities in sixty-something years, but nothing is learned. The only thing that changes in the American White culture are the players. The hate stays the same.

Back to the haiku project, I decided. Writing is my escape from real life, so let the escape happen again.

One bright memory from my childhood was the then-Fleischmann Atmospherium Planetarium. A day in the big golf ball on the University of Nevada campus was a day in heaven, so this poem from April 12 was a salute to a different era:

The Chairs Lean Way Back
Planetarium
Rockets launch as the slides click.
Stars and a deep voice.

Not great, but as noted in the original post, I wanted to be bad during this project in hopes I could learn to write good poetry. The return to the project in June revealed something to me. These are from June 7th.

Second Wave
Grama behind Glass
Will not save her from us as
We rush to infect.

Bedfellows
Lynchings on YouTube
Prove Uncle Sam loves Jim Crow
Like an old dear friend.

There is more of this voice in my draft, and, yeah, that’s me being angry. This blog post hints at this, and nothing has changed in two weeks. I’m pissed even as I write this sentence. Writing was my refuge from the real world, but now I want to write about the real world and let the anger flow.

As I gather the materials to publish my last Emma book, I’m at a crossroads. Creating books was my escapism, but I’m not sure I can escape anymore, or that I want to. Heck, my books ain’t selling, anyway, so this is as good time for a reassessment.

I will miss the young and naïve fool of April 2020 who could write without seemingly a care in the world, but it’s time to step up and care. I’ll let you know when I figure things out. Thanks for reading.

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